Her Story
by CardinalGinger
Summary: Do you truly know the story of the Phantom of the Opera? From the perspective of Christine Daaé that is? This is her story, of how she arrived in Paris, of how her father died, of how she had known sorrow for the first time in her life, of how the angel of music rejuvenated the soul she had in music, of how she was betrayed and she betrayed, of how she grew, and of how she loved.
1. JUNE 1897

ENTRY: JUNE 1897

 _In the several years that had passed of my time in Paris weigh heavy on my mind. Raoul has offered me bountiful suggestions as to how I can express such thoughts and emotions without telling him of such. One of which was to write them down and that I did._

 _Yet in such a period, I have known pain; I have known loss; I have known hatred; and I have known love. I think of him often and will never forget him. To the Garnier, he was the_ _ **Phantom of the Opera**_ _; to the managers, he was_ _ **O.G.**_ _; to the Persians, he was the_ _ **Angel of Doom**_ _. But to me, he was_ _ **Erik**_ _, who once was_ _ **my Angel of Music**_ _. He was kind, and he was cold; he was happy, and he was sad. There were times that his tortured mind was harsh as a vicious storm at sea, and there were times that his vivid mind shined brighter than any star in the sky._

 _He was forged by mankind's cruel treatments, broken by their judging glances, sprouted hatred from their views. I had once thought such cruel things, but I have grown to learn that he, too was human like the rest of us. That dreadful Phantom of the Opera was made from the same flesh that I and everyone, even those more wicked than he supposedly was. Erik was my maestro that had reawaken the spirit I had for music that lay dormant when my father had passed. He came to me, guised as the tale that I held so dearly because of my father always spoke to me of the Angel of Music. But yet, I could not hate him, neither for his actions or for his face. I could never bring to myself say I hated him._

 _These entries will be dated and transpiring in my perspective and none other. I will tell of the time from when I first arrived in the city of Paris with my father, to the time that I found myself to love_ **The Phantom of the Opera.**

Christine Daaé


	2. ENTRY: WINTER OF 1869

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: It has been almost a year since I've updated this and I hope I did not lose anyone. When I originally published this, I was going through my final year of high school and decided to focus more on my school work. It's very foggy of how I wanted to go about this story, but it is still focusing on a take of Christine's life leading up to the final moments of the original story. I have tried to be as historically accurate such as the currency used in Sweden during the time. I hope I do not lose interest in this story like I had before and do actually finish it.**

ENTRY: Winter of 1869

 _I was young when I was traveling with my Father, but I remember it so clearly in my mind as though it had just occurred. I kept close to him as any young child would when they entered somewhere foreign to them. His warm, gentle hand gave solace in a place so cold and bitter. I was growing weary as we dug deeper into the little town. He, too, tired and weary had lifted me onto his shoulders, carrying his beloved violin in one hand, and the other was intertwined with my own._

 _We traveled far into the nearest town. My father now could not carry on much longer. He made a stop at an inn whose keeper stood a little ways from the door, sweeping the ground under him. My father went up to the keeper and asked with a thick, foreign accent…_

. . .

" Excuse me, monsieur," Gustav called for the innkeeper, whose head tilted upward upon his calling. " Is this by any chance a room for my child and me to stay for the night?" His voice was so gentle that it would be difficult to reject.

"You and your daughter?" The innkeeper looked to them, his arms continuing to in a forward pattern.

Gustav nodded, brushing the blonde curls away from his cheeks. "Yes, monsieur."

"Ten riksdalers." stated the innkeeper bluntly, not once warning from his work with the broom.

With a nod, Gustav rummaged through his pockets and the very little possessions he had to search for the ten riksdalers required of the innkeeper. Producing a few bronze coins in his hand, he gave them to the innkeeper.

The greedy hand took the coins from Gustav harshly and its dirtied fingers counted each coin carefully. "This is only seven riksdalers." responded the innkeeper.

Heart racing and struggling to find more riksdaler for the innkeeper, Gustav was bereft. The money that he thought he had left was spent on food and drink for him and Christine. Christine's eyes open slowly, azure eyes look to the father, noticing his distressed features.

"Papa?" innocent, dulcet tones whispered.

Gustav looked up to his daughter, whispering in response. "Rest, my child." Looking back to the innkeeper, he spoke: " I'm sorry, sir, but that is all that I have."

The innkeeper, having already tucked away the little amount that Gustav had given to him, shook his head. " I'm sorry but you and your daughter cannot stay here." Not saying another word, he moved away from the two to sweep elsewhere.

Distraught by these words but not discouraged from them, Gustav followed the innkeeper. " Please, sir! It is only for the night, we have been traveling day and night. My little one needs a proper place of rest the most. I will sleep in the stalls if I must to ensure for her to rest her head." Desperation shook his voice as he comes closer to the innkeeper. His daughter not once left his thoughts, despite she is sleeping on his weary shoulders, as her life mattered more than his own. "I will work to pay for the rest of my stay if I must."

The innkeeper was moved by the determination of the father ensuring his daughter would rest soundly that night. The act was admirable, thought the innkeeper as his lips moved to speak. " Very well. Follow me inside." He picked up his broomstick, sticking his hand toward them and his fingers gesture them to follow.

Inside the inn, a homely and welcoming atmosphere gathered around the two. Wood cracking as it burned in the fireplace. A young woman sat in a chair near the fireplace writing in a leather-bound book; she looked up when she saw the innkeeper and Gustav enter, a smile crease upon her lips when she saw the innkeeper enter. After they left her sight, she went back to writing in her book.

Stopping before a door close to the entrance of the inn, the keeper produced from his pocket a ring of rusting, metal keys. Choosing one of the keys, he pushed it into the keyhole, unlocking it and pushing the door open for them. Much to Gustav's fortune, the room held two separate beds for Gustav and Christine, each.

Before the innkeeper departed from them, he turned to Gustav. "I will meet with you in the morning for work. Rest tonight to be ready for the coming morning."

Laying Christine down on the bed, Gustav responded to the innkeeper. "You have my eternal gratitude. Will my daughter have to work for our stay well?" He asked him.

"She will not have to do much, but my wife may ask for her assistance if needed."

"Gustav nodded, "Again Thank you, sir."

. . .

 _It was a blessing that the innkeeper was moved by my father's passionate words and allowed us to stay and work for the rest of our stay. My father and I were closer to one another. Our bond was a sacred kinship that could never be broken like the Viking tales that he used to tell Raoul and I. If my mother were living during our struggles, perhaps that same kinship will be extended with her as well._

 _Father told me of how much I resembled her and of how kind and wonderful she was. I had not truly known my mother, but from his words and stories, I felt as if I had known her all of my life. And I had missed her as much as I did my father._

 _In the morning, I woke to find my father gone. I remembered little of the innkeeper what the innkeeper said, but I had remembered pieces of my father saying that he would work to pay off the rest of his stay._

 _The inn had a very welcoming atmosphere to it as looked around the room we had obtained as it was superior to the dirty stalls we once had stayed in to keep shelter from a storm and other inns that we had enough riksdaler for._

 _I was drawn to the small window in our room, as I saw the shadows of many people stretch into the room we stayed in. Standing on the tips of my toes, I gazed into the madding crowds seeing young girls of my age holding the hands of their mother and father. It stirred in a wanting of something, something I wanted but I knew I could not have it as my mother had long been deceased._

 _I wanted to see what had been attracted such large masses toward this little town, but I did not want to worry my father of my wandering. I had attempted to wait for my father's return but boredom had easily become of me and something that I wanted to get rid of immediately. I was an adventurous child with our nomadic lifestyle, I often reflect when I thought of my childhood. My father was still absent when I thought of adventuring out into the crowds. Oh! I have thoughts of us running through the crowd for father to play the violin and I accompanied him with my voice! I was eager to share my thoughts with father when he returned._

 _I was not aware of my father's return as I became lost in my thoughts, but my excitement never diminished as I turned to him expressing the desire to go into town with him. He had agreed to take me! I cannot exactly recall the following moments, but perhaps after resting I will be able to fully remember such._


End file.
